


Why Tony Stark Was Allowed To Attend MIT As An Omega

by ChibiSquirt



Series: Switch-verse [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Rhodey, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Tony Stark Was Allowed To Attend MIT As An Omega

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking about timelines in my Switch-verse, and I realized that Tony would have been an Omega the whole time he was at MIT, and that that was... improbable, shall we say? I mean, there's a reason that all the O's I've shown so far are in jobs like retail or hospitality (or, okay, there was that one SHIELD doctor, but I figure he's a) one of those child-genius types that SHIELD loves and b) secretly HYDRA, so I'm not counting him). I figure, PMS vs Heat, women are going to be considered more reliable than Omegas, although also, since they're the ones that can breed, more valuable, as well. Less likely to be in the workforce, but more likely to be in a leadership role. So how did Tony persuade Howard to keep him at MIT? Especially since I really can't imagine Howard actually *listens* to Tony that often.
> 
> And then the answer came to me: *Tony* didn't.

Jim Rhodes reminds himself that it's okay to be nervous as he enters the lushly-appointed office.  It looks…  

He gives it maybe a 25% chance that Stark is in here more often than once a week, _that’s_ how it looks.  

It looks like the place that Stark keeps to send petitioners to when he wants them to die in a hell of waiting.

It looks unused, uncared-for, and uninteresting.

It looks like every other paperweight contained a listening device or camera, and the ones that don’t can double as weapons in a pinch.

It looks…

Jim sighs.  It's possible that this is not his most productive line of thought.

Turning seriously to the guess that half the paperweights contain spy devices, Jim tries to guess which ones are which.  That pretty stone pyramid, that definitely has a mic in it.  The statue of the mermaid, he can actually see the camera lens from here, but it's so small that instead of being offensive, it's just kind of cool.  That mini-version of Captain America’s shield, mounted on a stand…

Jim frowns.  That one might be real, actually.  He looks at the door, then quickly leans over and flicks the shield with a fingernail.

No sound.  The damned thing is _actually vibranium._

And Stark keeps it in his “Do Not Use” office.   _What the Hell is wrong with this man?_ Jim thinks, not for the first time in the last month and a half.

Jim counts paperweights, counts books in the bookshelves (slightly coated with dust, does the cleaning service not come in here?), counts squares in the ceiling tiles, counts planks in the hardwood floor…

He's down to calculating “Average Whorls Per Plank” when Howard Stark enters the room.

Jim uses his best “Air Force Posture”, holding out his hand to Stark professionally.  He tries to pretend a bead of sweat isn't running down his neck at the meeting of a man who worked on the Manhattan Project, the man who helped make Captain America into _Captain America,_ a man who's responsible for roughly 45% of the weapons Jim will ever touch in his military career…

...the man who has the ability to ruin the best friendship Jim’s ever had, even though it's only been six months.  

“Thank you for meeting me, sir,” he says, keeping his voice carefully even.  Hopefully he isn’t putting out pheromones, he knows he can be Smelly sometimes, _please_ not right now…

“I was impressed at the chutzpah it took to request the meeting,” Stark says brusquely, not shaking his hand as he passes right by Jim to go to the desk.  Jim takes a breath but not offense; Tony’s mentioned watching his dad do that, it's not personal, it's “the first line of defense in a very extensive repertoire of jackassness”, and the trick is to get past it by getting his attention.

“Some chances are worth taking,” Jim says seriously, no edge in his voice, and with a guy who (according to Tony) keeps going on and _on_ about Captain America, what do you know?  Sincerity works.

Not that Jim isn’t a sincere sort of guy.  He can joke with the rest of them, sure, but there are times when a man needs to be honest, and admittedly, this is one of them.

He has Stark’s attention now, at any rate.  Time to use it.  

“I realize that my request is unorthodox,” he begins, just as he’d practiced in the mirror of his too-empty dorm room, “But I believe it’s the right thing to do.”

“Wanting to fuck my son isn’t unorthodox,” Stark cuts him off, adding bitterly, “I assure you, it’s quite common.”

And Rhodey goes briefly breathless at how _wrong_ this is.

“What?  No, that’s not - No!”

“No?”  Stark raises a cynical eyebrow at him, pulling a bottle and two glasses out of the bottom drawer.  “Please.  I guarantee you, whatever proposal you have for me -”  He splashes two fingers into each of the glasses.  “- Sooner or later, it boils down to you getting Tony in your bed.”  He knocks back half of one glass, then holds the other one out to Jim.

Jim stares at the amber liquid, shocked that it's _this bad,_ that Stark could be _this wrong_ about his, frankly, _fucking brilliant_ son.

Jim doesn’t reach for the glass.

“No thank you,” he says evenly, instead.  “I don’t drink.”

Stark snorts derisively.  “A tee-totaler?  In college, really?  Pull the other one.”

“Underage,” Jim corrects him in… probably more of a growl than he should have used, really.  “I’m applying to the Air Force after I graduate, I have to have a clean record.”

“But you’re already ROTC, right?”  Stark indicates Jim's stance with the whiskey, then pours it into his own glass.

“My father’s military,” Jim says shortly, then re-focuses the conversation.  “That’s not what I’m here to talk about, sir.”

That  _sir_ just slipped out, but somehow, Jim doesn’t think Stark would mind.

“Ah yes,” Stark says, killing another significant portion of the liquor.  “And so we come back to you fucking my son.”

“Tony is a very gifted individual,” Jim says slowly, trying to remember his carefully-prepared speech.  “He has a lot to offer the world.”  

The sweat on his neck will move to his face, soon.  Hopefully this meeting won’t last long enough for Stark to see it.

“He’s pretty, promiscuous, and an Omega,” Stark blew him off, speaking of his _fourteen year old son, Jesus Christ._   “Granted, you’re the first one to talk to me about it - and I have to admire the balls you show doing that, I have always admired bravery -”  Jim’s eyes tracked, unwillingly, to the vibranium paperweight.  “- but you have to admit that this conversation would be a whole lot easier if you would just admit you have designs on my boy -”

“I have designs on his _designs,”_ Jim snaps, suddenly furious for both of them, but at least it _shuts Howard Stark up._

And six months of acquaintance with the man’s son has taught Jim to leap on any opening.

“Tony’s _brilliant,”_ Jim presses, “But I know you know that.  What you might not know about is his dedication to _quality._  

“Tony’s mind…  He could get everything done so much faster than anyone else in our class - he leaps onto concepts, digests them, and moves on before the rest of us have even figured out where we’re supposed to be _looking,_ half the time.  He _could_ knock out his assignments, turn them in, and be out partying all night like a typical freshman, only with a much less believable fake ID because no piece of plastic is going to convince _anyone_ that that kid is twenty-one.  

“He _could_ do that.  But he doesn’t.  He could turn turn in work that is 95% right, and get A’s in all his courses, and no one would be the wiser.  But he doesn’t.  He turns in work that is 100%, because he _can_ if he takes the time, and because he _cares._ And as a result, he builds the best robots, maps out the sturdiest model suspension bridges, writes the most flawless research papers, and trust me, _all_ of his professors have noticed.

“Look, sir, some day, I’m going to be a pilot.  If I get what I want, I’ll be a test pilot for experimental aircraft and weaponry, but if not that, then at least I’m going to be flying.  And when that happens, at least half of what I’ll be using will be Stark tech.

“When that day comes, I want it to be Stark tech designed by Tony Stark himself - and maybe you, I don’t know, you’ve been doing this since World War II, I assume _someday_ you’re going to retire - but I know, _I know_ that if Tony Stark designs my gear, my gear is going to work.

“Tony’s going to save my life with his tireless dedication to perfection, I know that for a _fact.”_

Jim pauses, and takes in the sight of Howard Stark with his tumbler frozen, half-full still, two-thirds of the way to his mouth.   _Ask for what you came for and get out,_ his father’s long-ago advice echoes in his mind, and he decides to do just that:  

“That is, _assuming_ you don’t finish pulling him out of MIT.”

Stark looks down for a minute, absently-mindedly setting the tumbler down on the surface of the desk - Jim mentally winces at the effects of liquid on antique hardwood with no coaster - and, chewing his bottom lip, gestures them both into chairs.  Jim feels awkward and nervous as he settles into the round-backed armchair in front of the desk; it seems like the sort of chair designed to dwarf and discomfit a man, and with that in mind, Jim shifts forward and perches on the edge, his back military-straight.  

It’s never failed him with his old man, no reason it won’t work with Tony’s.

Once settled, Stark picks up the tumbler again, but this time Jim can see it for the thoughtful gesture it is.  “MIT doesn’t have the facilities to provide adequate protection to an Omega in Heat,” he begins.

“True.”  Jim’s researched it.  Not only does MIT not have the facilities, they had flatly denied any plans to build such facilities, citing “A lack of interest by qualified Omega individuals in pursuing a course of study at our institution.”  Meanwhile, roughly two thousand Omega students had applied at the last admission cycle, all but seven being rejected - and each of those with enough private funding to have influenced the selection, including Tony Stark, who had not presented at the time of his admission.  “But Freshmen, including Omegas, are allowed to use off-campus housing as long as they have permission of their parent or guardian.”

Stark nods, thoughtfully, not looking away from him in a way that makes Jim, quite frankly, nervous.

“If you rented a house with a Heat shelter - there are a couple pretty close to campus, I guess some of the professors' - you could put Tony there, keep guards on him during his Heats, and assuming he worked the timing out with his professors, he’d be good to go.”

“Keeping a guard on him during Heats is the _easy_ part,” Stark barks.  “Do you know how many people are going to try to kidnap and rape my son once this gets out?”

Jim blinks.  “You’re thinking a bodyguard,” he realizes.

“He's _got_ a bodyguard, slips that dog whenever he feels like it."  Jim feels a twinge of guilt associated with being responsible for at least one episode of that behavior.  "No, I’d need somebody Tony doesn’t _want_ to slip.”

Jim’s getting a very bad feeling about this.

A very ominous, very  _be careful what you wish for,_  bad feeling.

Whatever Stark reads in his face - Horror?  Impending doom? Inescapable, unfulfillable responsibility? - it apparently satisfies him.  He nods to himself, pleased.  “You’ll sign a contract, of course,” he says.  “I’ll have one of my legal people draw it up - don’t worry, it won’t be too abstruse.  You’ll bodyguard him - I’ll make sure you have the same classes - and continue to live with him, although I dare say I can find a place a bit larger than a standard dorm room.  No contact during Heats.  No drug use, no hookers, and nothing else illegal that you can get caught with.  You’ll be paid - not much, certainly not as much as a fully-trained bodyguard, but there’ll be a stipend.”  He stands, holding out his hand; apparently, it’s all settled.  “As long as Tony maintains a 3.5 GPA and the integrity of his person, he can stay at MIT.”  

Stunned, Jim takes his hand, shaking it.  

_Holy shit._

It’s everything he’d hoped for:  Tony stays at school, private housing, and Jim even gets to stay with him.  

It’s _more_ than he’d hoped for:  A stipend, _holy shit!_  It’s…

...Howard Stark hasn’t let go of his hand.

He pulls Jim towards him, across the hardwood desk, and Jim tries not to grunt as the wood bites into his abdomen.  “Of course,” Stark murmurs, voice a deadly thread of poison through Jim’s elation, “You’ll also sign away any right to sexual intimacy.  No marriage, no sex, and he won’t be _kept_ by _anybody,_ much less you.  That’ll be in the contract, too.  You keep _that,_ and I’ll write you a letter of recommendation for the Air Force - and I assume you know _exactly_ how far that’ll go.”

Jim meets his eyes squarely, fighting to keep his anger in check.  “Of course, sir,” he answers.  “I would never.”  And then he can’t help himself:  as Stark nods, self-satisfied, Jim adds, “Besides, he’s _fourteen,_  that’s  _disgusting.”_

He watches the smirk drop off of the Alpha’s face with something grimly similar to triumph, and shows himself to the door.

 

* * *

 

Tony shits a brick when he tells him.

 


End file.
